


Seven Elizabethan Lyrics

by sneetchstar



Category: Still Star-Crossed (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-08-13
Packaged: 2018-11-28 20:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11425551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: Seven separate one-shots inspired by Elizabethan-era poems used as lyrics for a set of songs by English composer Roger Quilter.  Ratings vary by chapter.





	1. Weep You No More

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weep You No More - Anonymous
> 
> Weep you no more, sad fountains;  
> What need you flow so fast?  
> Look how the snowy mountains  
> Heav’n’s sun doth gently waste!  
> But my Sun’s heav’nly eyes  
> View not your weeping,  
> That now lies sleeping,  
> Softly now softly lies  
> Sleeping, sleeping.  
> Sleep is a reconciling,  
> A rest that peace begets;  
> Doth not the sun rise smiling  
> When fair at even he sets?  
> Rest you, then, rest, sad eyes!  
> Melt not in weeping,  
> While she lies sleeping,  
> Softly now softly lies  
> Sleeping, sleeping.

“He did _what_?” Benvolio asks, his voice rising. His anger surprises them both.

“He threatened to ruin my reputation if I did not consent to marrying you,” Rosaline answers, unable to meet her future husband’s gaze as she wills the humiliated tears to stay in her eyes. “I _did_ spend the night in his bed. Atop the blankets. Sleeping. Alone,” she allows, “But were he to claim I _shared_ his bed, that would be another matter entirely.”

Benvolio’s hand opens and closes, flexing near the handle of his sword as though he wishes to draw it and run Escalus through, prince or no. It angers him that Escalus treated her so badly, and it angers him that had he claimed to have lain with Rosaline, everyone would automatically believe his word over hers simply because he is a man and the prince. _It is simply unfair._ “And just hours earlier, he had withdrawn his order, saying he could not give you up,” he mutters, repeating back the words she had confessed to him.

Rosaline doesn’t know how or why the words came pouring out of her. They are being forced to spend time together again, despite all the unrest, despite Truccio’s broken body having been discovered in the street just days ago. All she remembers Benvolio making a comment about Escalus being a man of his word, and…

_Oh. That’s how._

Something snapped inside of her and she had gone off on a tirade about what Escalus’ word means to _her_ , which turned into her spilling all the tea about how he jerked her back and forth the fateful night of the party.

She was not prepared for her unwilling fiancé to react so… passionately.

“It is no matter,” she sighs. “He did not besmirch my character, Isabella agreed to support the ruse, and I am still marrying you.”

“Huzzah,” he replies without enthusiasm.

His blasé sarcasm makes her laugh, suddenly and unexpectedly.

Her laughter brings an equally unexpected smile to his lips. “There now,” he declares, “that is better.”

She blinks, gaping at him. “My laughter brings you joy?” she blurts.

“Well, it is certainly preferable to the venom to which I have grown accustomed,” he counters, spying their uncles lurking a distance away, watching them. He takes her hand and lifts it to his lips. “We are being watched,” he mutters just before he kisses her knuckles.

She hides her disappointment; thinking he actually _cared_ was somehow comforting. But of course it is all for show. “You are correct, my lord,” she smoothly replies. “It would not do for others to see my anger and despair when I should be sick with love for you.”

Now it is Benvolio’s turn to laugh. “I should think you were indeed sick if you suddenly declared your love for me, Beloved,” he declares. “However, I will admit your sadness brings me no joy,” he concedes, taking her hand and resuming their walk through the gardens. “It is one thing to revel in the misery you feel at this curséd arrangement because I share in that misery. It is quite another to revel in the misery you feel at being so harshly betrayed by a man you love.”

“Loved,” she softly corrects. “I cannot – _do_ not – love him any longer.”

“Good. For he does not deserve you,” he bluntly states. “You may be a Capulet harpy, but your heart is pure and true.” He stops, feeling a tug on his hand, and realizes she is gaping at him in disbelief once more. “What?”

“Did you just pay me a compliment, Montague?” Rosaline asks.

Benvolio rolls his eyes. “Of course not,” he answers. “’Tis merely a part of the act.” He speaks the words, but she can see in his expression, in his eyes, that he is having difficulty believing them.

So is she.

“Rosaline.” Lord Capulet’s voice a distance away rescues them from the awkward silence into which they have fallen, and she drops into a grateful curtsey.

Benvolio kisses her hand once more. “Until the morrow, Capulet,” he says, his voice a little _too_ tender.

All she can do is nod and scurry away to her uncle’s side. Unable to help herself, she glances back, and sees him watching them walk away, an inscrutable look on his face.

As she attempts to sleep that night, all she can see in her mind’s eye are Benvolio’s soft gray-green eyes as his words replay over and over in her brain.

_Your sadness brings me no joy._

_He does not deserve you._

_Your heart is pure and true._

The last thought Rosaline Capulet has before sleep claims her is _I have shed my last tear for Prince Escalus._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you familiar with my writing from other fandoms: Yes, another one of these.
> 
> For those of you reading my work for the first time: This is just something I do sometimes. I work with music and sometimes come across things that inspire me, though I cannot really call them "song fics".
> 
> Also, these are not direct interpretations of the poems. They are what the poems inspire me to write.


	2. My Life's Delight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My Life's Delight - Thomas Campion
> 
> Come, O come, my life’s delight!  
> Let me not in languor pine:  
> Love loves no delay; thy sight  
> The more enjoyed, the more divine.  
> O come, O come, and take from me  
> The pain of being depriv’d of thee.  
> Thou all sweetness dost enclose,  
> Like a little world of bliss:  
> Beauty, beauty guards thy looks: the rose  
> In them pure and eternal is.  
> Come then, come then!  
> O come, and make thy flight  
> As swift, as swift to me as heav’nly light.

She misses him.

Rosaline ~~Capulet~~ Montague _misses_ her husband.

Since their wedding, Benvolio has been a decent husband. When he is there. Not great, not even good, but decent. Fair. He has been neither unkind nor cruel, but he seems to be avoiding his wife and their home – thankfully away from both of their uncles – in favor of wandering the streets.

Or whatever he does.

She knows he is not visiting the taverns, or worse, the brothel. She knows this because she has started having a servant follow him.

Not one of her proudest moments.

Or wisest, as she discovers the night he comes home early and stalks into what should be their bedroom, where she is sitting and mending the hem of one of her dresses.

“Would you care to explain why Luca has been following me around all week?” Benvolio demands, very nearly slamming the door behind him.

Rosaline jumps and stabs herself with her needle. She hisses in surprised pain, and it gives her enough of a respite to recover from her shock and construct a suitable answer.

She lifts her chin and asks, “Would you care to explain why you feel the need to stay away from home as much as possible?”

He gets a smug look on his face that makes her want to slap it off. “Missing your husband, Capulet?”

She stands and steps toward him, refusing to be baited or cowed. “I simply wished to discern whether or not you were humiliating me by not keeping your vows and engaging in the manner of activity in which you engaged before our betrothal,” she answers. “Plus, this is  _your_ villa. You have responsibilities here that are going neglected because you obviously cannot stand to be in the same room with me for longer than the time it takes to consume a meal!”

He opens his mouth, closes it, then makes an exasperated noise and turns away, running his fingers through his hair. “I am not being unfaithful to you. You may choose not to believe this, but I am a man of honor,” he says, his voice a little too quiet.

“I know. Luca has told me you are given to simply walking the streets, avoiding everyone,” she answers, her anger deflating and melting back into confusion. “Why?”

He turns around, his expression haunted and hair unruly. “This marriage is not what either of us wanted,” he answers. “I stay away because you do not wish to be married to me.”

His words confuse her. “You… you do not wish to be married to me either,” she hesitantly comments.

“I thought you would be pleased by my absence. I thought it was _you_ who could not stand to be in the same room with me,” he admits.

“Benvolio, speak plainly; I implore you,” she says, growing frustrated with his indirect answers. “I grow tired of talking in circles with you,” she adds with a sigh. “I grow tired of the constant bickering. I simply want…”

He crosses the room in three long strides and she gasps at how close he is. He is invading her space, her senses, and she curses at how distracting it is. “Tell me what you want, Capulet,” he demands, but his voice is so soft it is almost a whisper.

“I want my husband to stay home and not feel he has to wander the streets like a vagabond,” she answers, afraid to meet his gaze for fear of what she will find there.

“Why?” This time it is a whisper. A desperate, lonely whisper.

She looks up. His eyes are boring into her, staring down into her very soul. “I miss you,” she admits, nearly inaudibly.

His hand comes up, his sword-roughened fingers remarkably tender against her cheek. “Is it possible you have grown fond of me… as I have of you?” he asks.

She wants to make a sharp retort, to deny his claim, anything but admit the truth, but the soft caress of his thumb on her cheekbone steals all her venom. “You’ve grown fond of me?”

He nods, and her eyes drop to his neck as his Adam’s apple bobs with his hard swallow. “Against all probability and my better judgment,” he says.

Rosaline smiles at his jest as Benvolio’s long fingers find and thread into the hair at the side of her neck. “Against  _my_ better judgment, I… may have grown fond of you as well,” she finally relents.

“Nothing can ever be achieved simply when it comes to you and I,” he replies, chuckling as he lightly shakes his head. “But perhaps this…”

His gaze drops to her lips for a fleeting moment, giving away his thoughts. She unconsciously bites her lower lip and does not miss the quiet but sharp intake of breath it brings forth from him. He slowly leans towards her, angling his head, his hands at her elbows, waiting for her to protest or pull away.

She doesn’t.

His kiss is tentative at first, testing the waters. He hasn’t so much as touched her since their wedding day, and that kiss was little more than a chaste peck performed out of obligation.

When he feels how soft and lush her lips are and how she isn’t pulling away from him, he presses closer, gradually deepening the kiss but still keeping his mouth mostly closed.

When she melts against him, her fingers stealing into his hair, he wraps his arms around her and gently sucks at her lower lip until she opens up to him, immediately meeting his curious tongue with her own.

Her response to him is more passionate than he expected, and he pulls away to gasp, “You were going to become a nun? You kiss like _that_ and you were going to waste—”

She stops his ridiculous line of questioning with her lips, soundly kissing him for a moment before saying, “Shut up,” and kissing him yet more.

He chuckles against her lips, then shifts once more, reaching down to scoop her into his arms.

She shrieks in surprise, her large brown eyes meeting his, searching them for answers as he walks the short distance to their bed, a bed they have not yet shared.

Benvolio’s eyes hold many things: passion, questions, surprise; but also fondness and a glimmer of happiness Rosaline doesn’t believe she has yet seen.

He pauses beside the bed and turns his head to kiss her once more. “We do not have to… that is, we can merely sleep if that is your wish… I would be content to simply hold you…” His words are halting and soft, and if there were any ice yet remaining around her heart, the consideration in those softly-spoken words would have melted it.

“It is my wish to…” she trails off, then sighs. She looks him in the eyes and says, “I know not.”

He turns and sits on the bed with her still in his arms. “Then I suggest we proceed and see where the evening takes us,” he says, then kisses her again. Now that he knows the taste of her lips, he finds he cannot get enough.

“I will follow your lead,” she whispers between kisses.

“No,” he replies, easing them down onto the bed. “I will follow yours.”


	3. Damask Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damask Roses - Anonymous
> 
> Lady, when I behold the roses sprouting,  
> Which, clad in damask mantles, deck the arbours,  
> And then behold your lips, where sweet love harbours,  
> My eyes present me with a double doubting:  
> For viewing both alike, hardly my mind supposes  
> Whether the roses be your lips, or your lips the roses.

“What therefore God hath joined together, let not man put asunder.” Friar Lawrence looks down at the bride and groom, who are each regarding the other both like careful predator and skittish prey. He clears his throat, then whispers between his teeth without moving his lips, “Kiss.”

The first thing Benvolio notices when he leans toward Rosaline is that she smells like roses. Sweet and fragrant and floral, the scent invades his senses and suddenly he knows he will never smell a rose without thinking of Rosaline.

His wife.

He catches her eye for a fleeting moment and is heartened to see she is just as anxious as he. Not exactly unhappy, not exactly upset, just… anxious.

Then he presses his lips to hers, intending to count to three and withdraw.

But her lips are as soft as the roses she smells like. Soft as petals and warm as sunlight. He forgets to count.

She doesn’t push him away. He may be imagining it, but she seems to melt against him. He definitely isn’t imagining the way her fingers of the hand bound to his tighten and the way her free hand comes up to rest on his chest.

When Friar Lawrence clears his throat again, Benvolio finally pulls away. He gazes down at her and sees her in a new light through his glazed eyes, finally seeing her not as the Capulet harpy he was forced to marry but as a beautiful woman who he wants to know better.

What’s more, she seems to be experiencing much the same realization as she stares back at him with her deep brown eyes.

The Friar says something – neither of them hear the words – and unbinds their hands. The newly married couple walk back up the aisle, their heads swimming with the kiss and the attention and the _kiss._

In the back of the cathedral, alone, they stare at one another, still in shock that this day even came to pass, much less without bloodshed. But most of their shock comes from their mutual realization that they do not hate each other.

Without a word, Benvolio grabs her hand and pulls her into a hidden alcove, where he kisses her again.


	4. The Faithless Shepherdess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Faithless Shepherdess – Anonymous
> 
> While that the sun with his beams hot  
> Scorchéd the fruits in vale and mountain,  
> Philon, the shepherd, late forgot,  
> Sitting beside a crystal fountain,  
> In shadow of a green oak tree,  
> Upon his pipe this song play’d he:  
> Adieu, Love, adieu, Love, untrue Love,  
> Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu, Love!  
> Your mind is light, soon lost, soon lost for new love.  
> So long as I was in your sight  
> I was your heart, your soul, your treasure;  
> And evermore you sobb’d and sigh’d  
> Burning in flames beyond all measure:  
> Three days endured your love to me,  
> And it was lost in other three!  
> Adieu, Love, adieu,  
> Love, untrue Love,  
> Untrue Love, untrue Love, adieu,  
> Love! Your mind is light, soon lost for new love.

“Capulet? What are you doing out here?” Benvolio’s voice is quiet, but it cuts into the silent, still night like a rapier.

Rosaline startles at the sound, then turns to face the last person she wants disturbing her solitude.

Second to last.

“I needed some fresh air and a respite from the crowd,” she finally answers, only when it becomes apparent that his question was not rhetorical.

He steps closer and pretends not to notice the redness of her eyes and the tracks on her cheeks left from tears. “Of course,” he tactfully answers. “I, too, often find these crowded affairs rather oppressive.”

“You?” she asks, surprised.

“Me,” he confirms, gently guiding her to a bench nearby.

“I thought you enjoyed revelry of… all manner,” she counters, raising an eyebrow.

He half-shrugs. “’Tis mostly a ruse to disguise my own discomfort,” he admits. “I find these social gatherings to be overwhelming and shallow. I much prefer the company of a few close friends to a room full of acquaintances and strangers.” His face turns wistful, and she instinctively knows he is thinking of Romeo and Mercutio, his closest companions, now lost to him.

“Everyone is so… pretentious. False,” Rosaline sighs her agreement. “I grow tired of the façade… the empty words… empty promises…” Her voice wavers and she turns her face away as her tears start fresh once more.

Benvolio has held his tongue about what he saw the night their arranged marriage was announced, largely because bringing it up would amount to nothing. He can only guess at what has transpired between his betrothed and the prince, but it isn’t difficult to piece together. “I am sorry he hurt you,” he quietly says, bravely offering his handkerchief.

Her hand hovers near it for a moment, then she takes it with a whispered, “Thank you.” She dabs her eyes and turns back to face him now that there is no reason to hide.

“Do you love him?” he asks.

“I thought I did. And I thought he loved me,” she answers, her simple honesty taking them both by surprise. “But he loves Verona and his… authority more.”

“A man who truly loves a woman would never toy with her emotions. Would never… hand her off to be married to another. Least of all a person that woman hates,” he darkly says, then immediately regrets it when he sees her stricken expression. “I’m sorry. I should not have… it is not my—”

“No. You are right,” she interjects. “I just did not expect to hear my own thoughts spoken so succinctly from another’s mouth. Least of all yours,” she explains, smiling a little at the end.

He lightly nudges her with his shoulder, then goes silent and still, staring off into the darkness of the garden around them. “I would never do such a thing,” he says, almost to himself. “Love is something to be treasured. It is a rare and beautiful thing, and to throw it away…” he trails off, shaking his head. “For the good of the city indeed.” He turns and sees her staring at him.

“Benvolio Montague, you are a romantic!” she exclaims, her voice still soft. “I never would have thought it.”

He looks mildly affronted. “I am sure you have many incorrect opinions about me, as I do of you,” he says.

She nods. “We barely know each other,” she allows. “It is most unwise to form opinions about something – or someone – about which you know very little.”

“Rosaline?”

Rosaline’s head turns at the sound of her uncle’s voice. “I’m here, Uncle,” she says. “I was getting some air and Benvolio saw fit to keep me company.”

“Unchaperoned?” Lord Capulet says, eyebrows rising, as he walks towards them.

“We are just talking,” Rosaline answers, rolling her eyes only because she knows he cannot see them just yet.

“Hmm,” Lord Capulet grunts. “I suppose since the two of you do not exactly get on, I will believe you.”

“I have no intention to dishonor your niece, Lord Capulet,” Benvolio says, standing and bending his waist in a slight bow. “You have my word as a gentleman.”

Silvestro Capulet merely gives him an unimpressed look and says to Rosaline, “We are leaving presently.”

Rosaline nods. “Good,” she replies, standing. “I am weary of this party.” Lord Capulet begins to walk away, but she lingers, turning to Benvolio. “Thank you,” she says, offering his handkerchief back.

“You’re welcome,” he answers, putting his hand over the cloth clutched in her hand and gently pushing it back towards her, indicating she should keep it. “And I give _you_ my word that I will say nothing of our conversation here tonight. Or about… what I saw that night.” He knows she saw him, so there’s no point in pretending.

“Thank you,” she repeats.

“Rosaline!”

She glances over her shoulder, then impulsively leans forward and quickly kisses his cheek. “I don’t hate you, Montague,” she quietly admits.

Then she is gone.


	5. Brown is My Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brown is My Love – Anonymous
> 
> Brown is my Love, but graceful,  
> And each renownéd whiteness,  
> Match’d with her lovely brown,  
> Loseth its brightness;  
> Fair is my Love, but scornful,  
> Yet have I seen despiséd  
> Dainty white lilies, and sad flow’rs well prizéd.  
> Brown is my Love, but graceful, but graceful.

They have been married three weeks.

It’s still awkward; they still feel like two strangers who keep encountering each other in their own home.

Their villa is small, so it shouldn’t be as surprising as it is.

Yet when Rosaline walks into the study one evening, Benvolio startles just slightly before bending his head over the desk once more.

“I wished for something to read,” she explains, earning her a shrug.

“This is your home, Capulet, you may go and do as you please,” he comments, not looking up.

She snorts lightly. “We both know that one’s home is not always so free,” she replies, her eyes scanning the volumes on the shelves until she finds one that interests her. She can hear his grunt of agreement above the scratching of his pencil on the paper in front of him.

She reaches up and plucks it from the shelf, then heads for the door.

“Do not feel you must flee on my account,” he remarks, and she stops.

“What?”

“The lighting is good in here,” he explains, finally looking up for a moment.

She shrugs and moves to a chair instead of leaving.

They sit in nearly-companionable silence for a time, the only sound the scratching of Benvolio’s pencil and the quiet, papery sound of Rosaline turning pages.

Finally, Rosaline’s curiosity gets the best of her, and she closes her book. “What are you writing?” she asks.

He sharply looks up, surprised. She smiles at a black smudge on his forehead. “I’m… sketching,” he says.

“May I see?” she asks, already standing and crossing towards him.

“Oh… I… um… well, I’m not really trying, and—” he haltingly stammers, trying to collect his pages. “I’d really rather you not—”

It is too late. “Is that me?” she asks, leaning over the desk. She is looking down at a page, upside-down to her eyes, but it is unmistakably her likeness, in profile. He drew her while she was reading. “Did you do that tonight?” she whispers, hesitantly reaching out to turn the paper so she can see it the right way up.

“Yes,” he quietly answers. “I wasn’t really—”

“It’s wonderful,” she says in hushed tones. “Why do you keep this talent hidden?”

“My uncle did not approve. He said it was a waste of time,” he answers.

She looks him in the eyes. “Your uncle is a fool. And I’m not just saying that because he’s a Montague. _My_ uncle is also a fool.”

Benvolio laughs, leaning back in his chair. “I cannot remember the last time I laughed,” he sighs.

Rosaline perches on the edge of the desk. “Nor can I,” she replies with a sad smile.

He stares up at her for a long moment. “May I continue to draw you?”

“Um, I suppose I do not mind,” she answers. He is still looking expectantly at her. “You mean now?”

“Yes, now,” he presses. He lightly taps the pencil, which she now sees is a stick of charcoal, on the desk, fidgeting. “I find you to be… an interesting subject.”

“Interesting?” she repeats, but stands and returns to her seat.

“Oh, don’t make me say it, Capulet,” he moans, taking a fresh piece of paper and setting it before him.

“Say what, Montague?” she goads with a sweetness that is obviously faked, appearing to pay him no mind as she returns her attention to the book.

He sets his pencil down and looks hard at her. “You are very beautiful,” he says. “Surely you must know that.”

She is silent for a minute. Now that she forced him to admit it she doesn’t know what to do with the information. All she knows is he is not lying to her. “I have been told so,” she says at length. “But never by anyone with an opinion that matters.”

“My opinion matters to you?”

“You are my husband,” she replies.

“That is not a good reason and you know it,” he says.

She hesitates. “I respect you,” she says. “Truly.”

“Good, because I also respect you,” he answers. Then he frowns at his page.

“What’s wrong?”

“I do not like this pose,” he says. “It does not do you justice.”

“What?” she asks, trying to look at the page.

He crumples it up and casually tosses it into the fire before she can see it. She begins to protest, but he takes her hand, pulls her up from the chair, and leads her to a chaise lounge on the other side of the room.

“Take your hair down,” he says, and her hands begin complying before her brain can process his request, pulling combs and pins out until her hair cascades around her shoulders in ebony ringlets.

She sits and lets him position her how he wants her, smiling at his incomprehensible mutterings as he works.

“I would love to paint you,” Benvolio suddenly mutters.

“Paint me?” Rosaline asks.

He sits with a fresh sheet of paper and begins sketching. “Yes,” he answers at length, not looking up from the page. “Your skin glows in the most captivating way. It tinges gold by candlelight and in the sunlight it… looks as though it is both trapping and reflecting the light.”

She had no idea he took such notice of her. “Thank you,” she whispers.

“It is something I yearn to paint but know there is no way such a glorious thing could be effectively captured on canvas,” he continues.

It is becoming obvious to Rosaline that her husband’s hobby loosens his lips. She’s never seen him so loquacious, and wonders if he is even aware of half of what he is saying.

“That painting in your family home,” he comments, looking up at her but only seeing her with artist’s eyes. “It is good, but… not great.”

“Oh?” she prompts, curious.

“Your likenesses are adequate enough, but a great portrait should convey the subject’s personality. When I looked at that painting, I knew it was you, but he did not capture your intelligence. Your wit. Your fire,” he explains. He frowns at his work, makes a few marks, and his brow eases, happy with his correction.

“My fire?”

“Yes,” he answers, but does not explain further. “And he didn’t get the right shade of brown for your skin either. I doubt he even tried very hard.”

“That always bothered me, to be honest. I noticed it right away,” she admits.

“I would have labored for days if necessary until I crafted the correct shade,” he says, then looks up at her. As he meets her gaze, everything he just said seems to register in his brain, and his cheeks flush. “Um…”

She simply smiles at him. “Can I see it?”

He blinks. “Not yet.”

xXx

A few days later, Rosaline finds herself being posed and positioned once more, still on the chaise, but this time in front of an easel. Benvolio had indeed been laboring for days crafting the perfect shade of brown with which to paint his wife.

He even literally painted her, touching his brush to her arm to show her how perfectly he matched her.

Words again keep falling from his lips while he works, and she learns a lot about him. His parents. His uncle. His regard for her.

At one point, he walks over and moves a lock of her hair. His fingers linger, bushing over her skin in a caress that quickens her heartbeat.

Then he disappears behind his easel once more.

She tries to talk, to reply to some of his comments, but he keeps telling her not to talk.

“Your face is very expressive… it moves too much when you talk,” he explains.

Just when Rosaline thinks her body will be permanently stuck in the position Benvolio placed her, he reappears at her side. He gives her an inscrutable look which ends with his gaze landing on her lips. A moment later, he swoops down and kisses her.

Just once. A soft, almost chaste kiss. He begins to pull away, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but she reaches up and pulls his face back to hers, taking advantage of his open mouth.

He squeaks in surprise, but a moment later his hand comes up to caress her cheek before his fingers thread into her hair. She feels his body shift as he sinks to his knees, but his lips never leave hers.

He kisses like he has been starving for her.

“Benvolio,” she gasps, tearing her lips away only because she was beginning to feel overwhelmed by the torrent of unexpected feelings flooding through her.

Undeterred, he trails kisses down her neck, humming pleasurably against her skin.

Her fingers move to tangle in his hair. “Where is this coming from?” she asks.

“I was painting and was… overcome by the need to know what your skin… your lips… felt like,” he murmurs against her skin.

“You kissed me at our wedding,” she dumbly replies.

“Not like this,” he counters, then plunges into her succulent lips once more. One hand is clutching her waist while the other seems to be working on implanting permanent finger marks into the cushion of the chaise.

“Not at all,” she manages between kisses. Her head is beginning to swim and she doesn’t know how her hand found its way beneath his shirt.

Benvolio pulls away, breathing heavily. He gazes down at Rosaline with dark, passion-glazed eyes, then tugs her down off of the narrow chaise and onto the floor, cushioning her landing with his own body.

“Oh!” she exclaims. He grunts when she lands on him, but immediately rolls them so she is beneath him, lying on her back on the dropcloth spread out to protect the rug from any paint that might be spilled.

He kisses her with a single-minded purpose, and if she was unaware of his intent (she wasn’t), his hand closing over her breast would have made it perfectly clear.

She sighs, arching under him to press her breast into his hand. She can feel his growing hardness against her hip and unconsciously presses against that as well.

“God’s wounds, Capulet,” he groans, leaning back to start yanking at laces and fastenings, his practiced fingers making quick work of her garments.

She is just as busy, yanking at his clothing, in just as much haste as he, it seems.

It is clumsy and a little uncoordinated, but they manage to get themselves naked in less than a minute.

“You bolted the door?” she asks, gasping as he sucks a taut nipple into his mouth.

“Yes,” he murmurs against her skin, kissing a path across her chest to her other breast. “I did not wish to be disturbed while I was… painting.”

She giggles, her hands skimming his body, learning the lines of him, reveling in the feel of the muscles beneath his warm skin.

Benvolio’s hand slides down over Rosaline’s curves. Her body is firm and supple at the same time, strong and soft, a study in contradictions, much like the woman herself. He lingers at her hip, moving to her thigh, letting her grow accustomed to his touch.

When she writhes and whimpers beneath him, he slides a single finger along her folds, groaning when he feels how wet she already is.

“Rosaline.” His voice is a broken, husky whisper. He lifts his head and watches her while his finger delves a little further in, waiting for her to realize what is happening and push him away with a sharp comment.

He moves his finger, slowly beginning to stroke her.

She looks positively blissful.

“Benvolio…” she sighs, a smile gracing her lips before they part, inhaling sharply when he gently circles the place he knows will give her the most pleasure. “Oh…”

He kisses her then, overwhelmed by her beauty, overwhelmed by her responsiveness, overwhelmed by his own feelings. “I would give you your pleasure first, dear Wife,” he softly says, nuzzling her nose before returning his lips to hers. She makes a quiet questioning sound into his mouth. “Trust me,” he assures her, lightly nipping her lower lip.

“I do,” she replies. “Oh… that feels…”

“Good. It should.” He adds a second finger, and when she gasps again, he says, “Part your legs for me.”

Her body immediately obeys, and she moans when he slips one finger inside her. His practiced fingers are soft and clever, and soon she is whimpering and trembling, clutching his shoulders.

“Let go, Rosaline,” he says, his lips brushing her cheek, her ear as he murmurs lowly. “Give in to it.”

A second later she cries out and her legs reflexively close, trapping his hand. “Oh my,” she says, breathing heavily. Her heart is pounding and she feels like she flew for about three seconds. “I’ve never…”

He smiles. “I had a feeling you hadn’t,” he says. He knows full well that women will touch themselves the same way men will to bring themselves to release, but somehow he knew that Rosaline Capulet, who once professed a wish to run away to become a nun, had never done such a thing.

She stares at him for a moment, as if trying to decide if she wants to pursue the topic further. “Clearly I have been missing out,” she finally says, drawing a hearty laugh from her husband.

“Clearly,” he agrees, shifting a bit.

She feels the heavy, hot length of him brush her hip when he moves, and remembers. “Oh. You have yet to…”

“Do not fret, Wife, there is time. I can wait until you are ready,” he says, kissing her.

As he kisses her, she realizes she wants to know what it feels like to have him inside her, to be closer to him than she has been to anyone else.

She wants him.

“I am ready,” she whispers into his mouth.

“Y-you are?” he asks, drawing back, surprised.

“Yes.”

His lips return to hers, kissing her with everything he has. He nudges his knees between hers, gently but deftly helping position her around him. His hand lingers on her thigh after encouraging her to bend her legs, the silken texture of her skin like a magnet for his touch.

He hesitates at her entrance.

“I know it will hurt,” she says, apparently reading his mind. “It’s all right.”

He bends down and kisses her once more, then thrusts forward, swiftly breaching her maidenhead.

“Ah!” she gasps, her body tensing up for just a moment. She exhales and wills her body to relax.

“I am sorry,” he whispers, knowing she doesn’t hold him responsible, but feeling the need to apologize nevertheless.

She sweetly kisses him, and he takes that as his cue to proceed, sliding out and back in again, moving slowly at first, torturing himself in his effort to be considerate of her pain. When she seems to relax again, he lets himself go. She feels so good, so warm and wet, and it has been some time since he’s engaged in the pleasures of the flesh that he doesn’t last as long as he normally would.

“Rosaline,” he softly groans, his head dropping so their foreheads are touching. His whole body is a taut spring as he releases into her, his eyes closed. He slumps over her after a few seconds, then slides lower to rest his head on her chest.

“You are heavy,” Rosaline says after a minute.

“Forgive me,” Benvolio answers, rolling off of her and tucking her to his side. He gropes to the side, seeking out the edge of the dropcloth. When he finds it, he pulls it over them as a makeshift blanket.

“That was not exactly how I imagined lying with my husband for the first time,” she says, laughing. “On a painter’s cloth on the floor, I mean.”

“I certainly hope not,” he agrees, joining her laughter.

“I wouldn’t change it though,” she says, surprising them both.

He is silent for a second. “Well, the entire nature of our courtship and marriage has been… unconventional,” he replies.

She snorts an indelicate laugh, turning her head into his shoulder. “That is one way of putting it.”

“Oh, dear Capulet, I believe I have grown fond of you,” he admits, kissing her forehead.

“You are not… completely horrible,” she replies.

He sits up and looks down at her, perplexed, but relaxes when he sees the mischief on her face. Then his expression changes yet again, into something soft and contemplative.

“What?” she asks.

“Don’t move,” he says. He stands, yanks his trousers on, then dashes out of the room with her calling his name after him. He returns with a sheet – likely ripped from their bed – under one arm. He offers his hand down to her.

“What on earth are you on about?” she asks, shyly standing, unsure of being completely bare before him.

“By God, you are beautiful,” he exclaims, too distracted to answer her question. “Sit here again,” he instructs. He arranges the sheet around her, covering her in such a way so as to be alluring yet still modest.

“You are going to paint me like this?” Rosaline asks, lifting her hand to her hair.

“Don’t touch it,” Benvolio orders. “Sorry. Yes, I am. You look incredible right now.” He tugs the sheet a bit more, then steps back. “And the white of the sheet contrasts quite nicely with the brown of your skin. You look like a goddess, Capulet.”

“Truly?” she asks, growing interested. No one has ever called her a goddess before. Perhaps being forced into this marriage wasn’t so terrible.

He walks back over to her. “Yes.” He kisses her. “You look elegant. And regal. And alluring. And, above all, _ravished,_ ” he explains, kissing her between each statement. “Your lips slightly swollen, hair in a glorious disarray,” he trails his finger down her bare shoulder, “skin glowing. You are radiant and I _will_ capture it on canvas.” He drops a kiss on her shoulder and returns to his canvas, absently kicking the rumpled dropcloth back into place.

“Oh,” she dumbly replies, not knowing how to respond to such praise, especially from him.

“Now. Where were we?” he asks, frowning at his work for a moment before diving back in. “Did I ever tell you about the time Romeo, Mercutio, and I…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah so this one got away from me a little bit


	6. By a Fountainside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By a Fountainside - Ben Jonson
> 
> Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;  
> Yet slower, yet: O faintly, gentle springs:  
> List to the heavy part the music bears,  
> Woe weeps out her division when she sings, when she sings.  
> Droop herbs and flow’rs, Fall grief in show’rs,  
> Our beauties are not ours; O I could still,  
> Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,  
> Drop, drop, drop, drop,  
> Since nature’s pride is now a wither’d daffodil,  
> Is now, is now a wither’d daffodil.  
> A wither’d daffodil.

“I am sorry.” Benvolio’s voice is low and sincere.

Rosaline lifts her head and sees him standing before her, still dirty and bloodied from his ordeal.

“Thank you,” she replies. She pats the space beside her, the wide ledge of a fountain in a courtyard of the palace.

She had fled the room where Prince Escalus had been taken to see to his wound. She fled when Escalus, her childhood friend, the man she once assumed would become her husband, succumbed to his wound.

“Take care of her… please,” was all he had said, his dark eyes boring into Benvolio’s troubled gray-green ones. After a moment spent coughing up blood, the prince added, “Promise me.”

“I promise,” was Benvolio’s immediate reply.

“Rosaline…” Escalus’ voice was weak and raspy, but she heard it, clutching his hand tighter in hers.

It was the last thing the Prince of Verona would say before coughing once more, closing his eyes, and breathing his last.

“The arrow was poisoned…” The physician began explaining how the wound became a fatal one, but Rosaline would not stay. Could not stay.

So she fled, nearly knocking over Isabella in the process.

Benvolio stayed only long enough to briefly bow before his new sovereign. Then he, too, left the chambers, chasing after Rosaline.

He sits beside her on the fountain’s edge. Her hand is still there on the stone, so he picks it up and holds it in his.

She lets him.

“You do not have to look after me,” she says at length.

“Capulet I—”

“I know you are a man of your word and understand that a death-bed promise is not something to be taken lightly, but I will not hold you to it,” she interrupts.

“I did not ag—”

“You do not need to feel as though you are responsible for me any l—”

“Rosaline!” His voice is urgent, but neither harsh nor loud.

She looks over at him, gazing at him almost as though she is seeing him for the first time.

“I did not agree to Escalus’ request out of a sense of responsibility or obligation,” he continues. “I _want_ to… that is to say it would be my honor to see to it that your remaining years on this earth are happy ones.” He slowly, slowly lifts her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles once, then again.

“You cannot promise that,” she whispers.

“I can promise to try,” he counters, turning her hand and kissing the inside of her wrist.

She holds his gaze for a moment, then drops it, looking at her lap. A tear falls from her eye, leaving a small wet circle on the skirt of her gown. They can faintly hear the clang of metal, the occasional shout, from outside, but the sound of the water dripping down from the fountain is much louder, filling their ears.

“He loved you still,” Benvolio says, not knowing what else to say. “Despite his actions, he—”

“I know,” Rosaline replies. “He told me so.”

“And how did you answer him?” he asks, wanting to know. Needing to know.

“I told him I also loved him,” she answers. He tries not to sigh too loudly, not to let his shoulders slump too much. If she notices, she does not let on. “But that was before. It seems like years now, but it has only been days. So much has happened. So much has changed.”

“Yes,” he agrees. She has not withdrawn her hand from his, and he realizes he has been caressing small, idle patterns onto the back of her hand with his thumb.

“And now he’s gone. I had known him my entire life,” she says, swiping away a tear.

“I know. And I am truly sorry. He… he was not a bad man. He would have been a good ruler,” he replies.

Rosaline nods. She knows of the prince’s reluctance to lead, his fears, his uncertainty. He had once confessed to her that his sister was better suited than he to rule the city. She says none of this to Benvolio; there is no point now. “Isabella will be a great ruler,” she says instead.

He slowly nods. “Yes. Yes, I believe she will,” he agrees.

They sit in silence for a time, comfortable in it with one another, each keeping their own counsel.

Eventually, Rosaline takes a deep, shaky breath, holds it a moment, then exhales, just as unsteadily. She lifts her free hand to her face, wiping away the remnants of her tears. "You promise to try?” she asks, remembering his earlier vow.

“I do,” he immediately answers. “I do not have much to offer you except—”

“Stop,” she says. “I don’t want any grand words or gestures. Just promise that you’ll…” she takes a deep breath, “that you’ll love me and continue to always be honest with me and that will be enough.”

He kisses her hand again, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment. “Yesterday I told Escalus that I will never lie to you,” he says. “Today I say it to you. Rosaline Capulet, I promise you that I will always be honest with you. If you will have me, I still wish to marry you. Not for the good of the city, but for the good of ourselves. Because you are good for me, and, I believe, I may be good for you.” He leans over and presses a small, soft kiss to her lips. “And I _do_ love you.”

Rosaline lightly gasps, knowing there is no way he could have heard her words to Escalus that night, “What about the good of me?” Yet here he is, saying the exact words she didn’t realize she needed to hear. She leans forward before he moves too far away and catches his lips with hers once more. “I will have you, Benvolio Montague,” she answers. “But first…”

“First,” he echoes, rising and pulling her to her feet, “we help save Verona from Paris. And we find your sister.”

She throws her arms around him, hugging him so tightly he grunts. “Thank you,” she says.

His arms come up around her, holding her just as tightly, secure in the knowledge that he will never need to let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't really want to kill Escalus, but someone had to be the sacrificial lamb for this chapter. And he was already injured, so...


	7. Fair House of Joy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair House of Joy – Anonymous
> 
> Fain would I change that note  
> To which fond Love hath charm’d me  
> Long, long to sing by rote,  
> Fancying that that harm’d me:  
> Yet when this thought doth come  
> ‘Love, Love is the perfect sum  
> Of all delight!’  
> I have no other choice  
> Either for pen or voice  
> To sing or write.  
> O Love! they wrong thee much  
> That say thy sweet is bitter,  
> When thy rich fruit is such  
> As nothing can be sweeter.  
> Fair house of joy and bliss,  
> Where truest, where truest pleasure is,  
> I do adore thee:  
> I know thee what thou art,  
> I serve thee with my heart,  
> And fall before thee,  
> And fall before thee.

Benvolio did not know his wife could sing.

In truth, there was still a great deal he did not know about fair Rosaline Capulet before they were wed. She could say the same thing.

Their betrothal, first by royal command, then by choice, was, in a word, unconventional. Even after he asked her of his own free will to be his wife and she willingly consented, they did not have much time to get to know one another.

Verona was at war. Benvolio, being a young, able-bodied man from a noble house, not only fought for his city, but commanded.

Rosaline worked tirelessly, helping to tend the wounded and doing anything she could to help. She always watched her beloved ride out and felt like she held her breath all day, waiting for his return.

By the time Escalus recovered from his wound, word had reached his ears that he had lost the heart of his Rosaline to the Montague heir after all. All he could do when he finally got a moment alone with her was swallow his pride and wish her happiness.

They wed the very evening following the final, victorious battle.

Two weeks later, Benvolio finds himself trailing after Rosaline in the gardens, just to listen to her sing. He tries to stay hidden, not wanting to get caught looking like a lovesick fool, but as the minutes pass, he gets the distinct impression she knows he is there.

As she bends over to pluck a weed from a flower bed, she stops singing. “Is there something you require, Husband, or are you content to follow me around all day?” she asks, glancing over her shoulder and looking squarely at what he _thought_ was a very good hiding place.

He sighs and steps out from behind the tree. “How did you know I was there?” he asks.

“You aren’t half as stealthy as you believe yourself to be,” she replies, angling her head at him as she places her hands on her hips. “Honestly, how did you survive the fighting? Or were our foes even less observant than you?”

“Very droll, Wife,” he comments, a smile pulling at his lips as he strolls towards her. He finds he actually enjoys her sharp wit now, even when it is aimed at him. He was quite pleased to discover that happiness and contentment did not diminish the fiery side of her nature. He bends and picks a daisy from a nearby plant.

She doesn’t move towards him, instead waiting for him to come to her. “I could hear your boots,” she explains.

He reaches her and tucks the flower into her hair, just above her ear. “I was listening to your singing,” he confesses.

“Oh?” she asks, eyebrows rising in mild surprise. “What would the men in your command think if they knew you were so softly sentimental?” she teases, but the fondness in her eyes betrays her true feelings.

He reaches out, wraps an arm around her waist, and pulls her close. “They would be green with envy that I am married to such a beautiful, wise, and talented woman,” he answers, nuzzling her nose with his.

“Ugh,” she softly groans, rolling her eyes even as she grins. “You are terrible, Husband.”

“And yet you love me still, Wife,” he says, undeterred as he begins feathering light kisses on her jaw.

“’Tis uncharacteristic poor judgment on my part,” she says, her voice growing slightly breathy as his lips move to her neck.

“Well, that is certainly a pity, because I do adore thee,” he murmurs in her ear, causing her body to erupt in goosebumps on that side.

She reaches up and cups his jaw in her hand, then guides his lips to hers, kissing him softly at first, but it quickly transforms, becoming more passionate.

When her hand slides into his hair, he pulls away. “Come inside with me,” he breathes, leaning his forehead against hers. Before she can answer, he grabs her hand and begins leading her towards the house.

“Benvolio, it is the middle of the day…” she protests, her cheeks flooding with heat, thinking anyone who can see them must surely know her husband’s scandalous thoughts.

Benvolio laughs, gently tugging Rosaline inside, where the work to restore her family’s home has just begun. Ignoring curious and knowing looks from the few workmen, he leads her straight to the staircase. “Sweet Capulet, your innocence is most becoming,” he says once they are alone.

“And likely short-lived, with your influence,” she replies, backing away, making him pursue her. “Tell me, Montague, will you grow tired of me when I stop blushing at your every suggestive remark?”

He stalks towards her, removing garments as he does. “Well, considering I cannot really _see_ you blush, _Capulet…_ ” he answers, his hand darting out and catching her skirt. He bunches his fist in the material, careful not to tear it, and pulls, dragging her towards him until she is pressed against his body, her back to his chest. “How you think I could _ever_ grow tired of you is quite beyond my comprehension,” he rumbles into her ear, then licks the edge of it. “And if you understand my suggestive remarks, you are not as innocent as you claim.”

She nearly falls backwards when he suddenly pulls away to start undoing the laces in the back of her dress.

“As I said, it is your bad influence that has tarnished my honor,” she replies. Her dress loosens and falls slightly away from her body, and he enthusiastically helps her out of it.

“And what of your bad influence on me?” he counters, his eyes darkening as he takes her in. Her shift disguises very little.

She twitches her lips together to keep from smiling. “I believe you mean my _good_ influence,” she corrects.

He unceremoniously drops his trousers and pulls her against him once more. “Yes,” he agrees, kissing her. “I do. Because you make me a better man in every way.”

“And my honor has not been tarnished in any way,” she softly responds, no longer teasing. “You have brought me more joy than I would have thought possible.”

He smiles warmly at her, his fingers trailing from her shoulder down her arm as he lowers one of the straps of her shift. He leans down and kisses her shoulder. “My beloved harpy, none could have predicted such a miracle. Including the prince,” he says. Then he lowers the other strap.

The thin garment slithers to the floor and Benvolio follows, dropping to his knees before her. Rosaline stands, slightly stunned at his behavior, watching as he wraps his arms around her, leans forward, and tenderly, almost reverently kisses her stomach, right over the place where neither of them yet realize their child has already begun to grow.


End file.
